


Don't Let It Go

by AMaroonKindOfOrange (XylB)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Set in season 12, but it's in a memory and only five lines, injured Grif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7849729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/AMaroonKindOfOrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons needs to sort some things out, especially after he realizes he could lose the one good thing in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let It Go

“How did your last mission go?”

Simmons chuckles mirthlessly. “Pretty terribly, actually. Two – uh – two of them died.”

“Them meaning your squad?”

“It was my fault – I – I could've...saved them, but I was...distracted.”

“Distracted by anything in particular?” Simmons drags his hand down his face, unsure how to answer. He feels the day old stubble growing on the human parts and he tries to remember to shave tomorrow morning. God, he's such a mess. Can't even remember to shave. How the hell is he supposed to lead a squad?

“Simmons?”

Simmons blinks and puts his hand back on his thigh.

“Sorry, I was just – nevermind.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

The therapist shifts in her seat and tip-taps something on her tablet.

“I think I need a break.”

“From?”

“From - “ fucking therapy, he wants to say, but that's not the issue. It might be the only thing helping him at this point. “From the army, the training, the – the missions. I just – I need a break.”

“Well, I can tell General Kimball you need to...recuperate for a day or two, if you need.”

“No, no, don't. I can't let her down, I can't - “ Simmons swallows and focuses intently on the floor. “We're already down a captain and I can't leave it all to Tucker and Caboose.” A pause. “Do you think a day off would help?”

“Yes,” the medic says simply, but Simmons knows it's not that simple. If he took a day off Kimball would have to know why, and then Tucker would want to know why, and then his squad would want to know and then it's a spiral of people asking and wondering and he already has enough trouble speaking to people that he doesn't need them finding out – figuring out – guessing why he's been so _off_ lately because it's his business and none of theirs but – but -

“I can't,” he says. He's not just talking about the day off.

“I understand,” Dr. Peters says. She's not talking about it, either.

Simmons holds his head in his hands and despairs.

\----

Hospital visiting times are over after dinner, and Simmons nearly skips his to go, but his body can't take any more abuse.

Right after dinner is when all the doctors and medics make the rounds, changing bandages, giving medicine, hooking up new IVs, checking on broken bones, etc., until they get the hospital to sleep.

Man, Simmons wishes he could sleep.

He pushes mashed potato around on his plate and mindlessly scoops a forkful into his mouth. Tucker looks at him strangely and then pokes him with his fork.

“What's up with you lately?” He asks. Simmons feels naked without his armour.

“Nothing.” Everything.

“Tucker,“ Caboose whispers, loudly, “is Simmons sad?”

Tucker sighs. “Yes, Caboose.”

Simmons hardly feels himself eating his kidney beans.

“Well,” Caboose continues, still loud enough for Simmons to hear, but Caboose has no concept of 'subtle', “tell him he shouldn't be because his friends are alive.”

“Fuck that, you tell him.”

No one tells him. Simmons heard it anyway.

\----

_There's blood everywhere and Simmons can't find the source – his chest, his **chest** – he can't find it, he can't **find** it – goddamn it – and Grif's bleeding out under him, armour slippery with his own blood and Simmons desperately trying to find the releases to the chest plate, but his fingers slip and his vision blurs with tears and he misses it and – and - _

Simmons wakes up with a start and tries to blink away his fuzzy vision before he realises he's crying.

“Fuck,” he whispers, relaxing back down on his bed, roughly wiping away a tear. He hates the nightmares. Can never decide if they're better or worse than the real thing. Con: Grif dies in every one. Pro: they remind him Grif didn't die, that Simmons saved him.

Yeah, 'saved's not really the word he's looking for. 'Saved' doesn't mean hooked up to five different machines in the hospital room, one of them breathing for you and the one pumping your heart for you. It's been a week and Simmons can still remember the sticky residue of Grif's blood on his armour.

He can't fall asleep so he just turns onto his side and stares at the empty bed on the other side of the room. It still hasn't been made.

\----

“Look, I'm too fucking tired of this!” Simmons snaps the next day in the middle of therapy. “I'm so – so fucking _done_ with this!” He stands up and the therapist does, too.

“Simmons - “ she says, but Simmons' has already gone from angry to guilty to apologetic.

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap – I just - “ He can't think of any more excuses. He sinks back into his chair and Dr. Peters sits in hers. “I'm sorry,” he says again, burying his face in his hands.

“It's okay, Simmons. It's perfectly normal.”

He hasn't told her the real problem yet – the one lying half-dead in the hospital – she just thinks he's stressed. Which he is, but not for the reasons she thinks. Or – probably, but there's one she doesn't know.

There's a buzz itching under his skin and he can't figure out _why_. It's driving him up the fucking wall, just this incessant urge to _do_ something, but he doesn't know _what_.

“Simmons?”

“I'm sorry.”

\----

“Simmons, I want you to tell me three happy things from your life before the army.” It's a new day, a new session, and Dr. Peters is casually observing him while asking one of the hardest questions of his life.

“Uh – from _before_ the army?”

“That's right.”

“Uh.”

“It can be anything, Simmons, it doesn't have to be big or meaningful. Just three things – an object, a memory, a person, place – anything.”

Simmons likes Dr. Peters. She's a good therapist.

“I – I liked playing D&D with my friends – we'd meet up after school somedays at someone's house – never mine, but usually Carter's – and we'd play. It was fun.”

“How many of you usually played?” Dr. Peters writes down something on her tablet.

“Four, including me.”

“That's a good friend group size.”

Simmons gives her a wry smile. “Didn't seem like it at the time.”

“I'm sure it didn't.”

“I like apple tarts. My friend – Larry's mother used to make them all the time. Every Friday, when she packed it for his lunch, she would pack a piece for me, too.”

“What kind of apples were they made of?”

“I think Pink Lady, but I could be wrong.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah. Haven't had it since I joined the army. She gave me some when she found out I was leaving. Never told her where I went.”

“Where in the army or the fact that you were in the army?”

“No, uh, I never told her where I was posted.”

“Okay.”

 

Simmons thinks for a few moments.

 

“I liked programming. I took a few courses in high school and did some on my own. I thought it was cool.”

“I could never pick it up,” Dr. Peters smiles at him, “I wish I could've.”

“Yeah, it's – it takes work.”

 

She's smiling at him but he can't bring himself to smile back. He doesn't deserve to feel happy right now.

 

“So Simmons, I noticed that you didn't mention your parents in your three things.”

“My mother wasn't around much and my – my father - “ he has to stop and take a breath. Dr. Peters leans over and places a reassuring hand over his.

“You don't have to tell me anything, Simmons. We never have to discuss anything you don't want to.”

Simmons appreciates the comfort, but he needs to say it. It would be better for him. Probably.

“My father never wanted me this way.”

Dr. Peters leans back into her chair and furrows her eyebrows. “Like what?”

“Like – this,” Simmons gestures to all of him. “Too nerdy, too wimpy, too wrong, too _different_.”

“Well, _I_ don't think you're nerdy and wrong.”

Simmons gives her a half-smile. “Thanks.”

“So why'd you join the army?”

Simmons shrugs. “To get away from him. To make him happy. I don't really know. He never responded to my letters.”

 

That gives the room a sombre silence.

 

“I'm sorry, Simmons. That sounds rough.”

“Yeah, but – but I'm here now. I've done fine without him.” Simmons blinks away the tear threatening to well up in his human eye.

“That's good, Simmons.”

“Can I – Can I go now?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He starts to go but she grabs his arm as he walks by.

“Simmons, you're doing well. You're – You're actually discussing problems, and that's more than I usually get from patients here. It's - “ she sighs “ - it's refreshing to see someone who isn't completely broken like most of the soldiers I get in here. Just, “ she looks up at him, “whatever makes you happy here, whatever's making you – god, I don't know how to put this – making you _feel_ , don't let it go.” Her hand drops. “Hold on to what you have.”

“Thanks,” Simmons says softly. He detects a sort of sadness from her – a sort of loss, but everyone has that these days and no one knows how to fix it.

“And Simmons?” He's almost out the door.

“Yeah?”

“You know you can come in here anytime. You don't have to just come during the appointments.”

“Thanks,” he says, pushing every ounce of sincerity he feels into his tone.

\----

It's been a week and two days and Simmons still can't bring himself to visit the hospital. He thinks it's Saturday, but honestly the days have blurred together and all he can count is days since Grif's blood was drying on his own armour.

Either way, today is the chosen day when they have two hours for lunch as opposed to half an hour. So Simmons grabs a bowl of chicken noodle soup and finds his table only to see Tucker and Caboose bickering about something.

“Yes, Tucker, but the mean lady said - “

“No! She didn't!”

“What's wrong?” Simmons asks as he sits down.

“Nothing,” Tucker sighs, dragging his fork through his rice. “Caboose just misunderstood the meaning of the word 'secret'.”

“No, because secret means don't tell anyone. And I'm not telling anyone, I'm telling Smith. He can keep a secret, he promised.”

“For fuck's sake,” Tucker groans. Then he jabs his fork at Simmons. “And where have _you_ been?”

“Uh – been?” His voice goes up an octave.

“You've been late to lunch every day for a week. And I _know_ you're not still running drills because I see your squad getting lunch at the beginning of lunch every day.”

“I'm, uh, cleaning up?” Going to therapy. “The training area. To make it...put – together?”

Tucker sets his jaw and glares at him. “You're lying. I don't know what you're covering, but I'll find out.”

Simmons doesn't have a response.

He also spends his extra hour and a half sitting on a crate outside the hospital, trying to work up the nerve to go in.

He doesn't.

\----

Simmons' cyborg fingers stop working on the worst day. Tucker's on a mission with Felix and Caboose is nowhere to be found, so Simmons is stuck with training all three of their squads. It's also rifle day and he can't use his right hand.

“Fuck,” he spits as he tries to bend his middle and ring finger into something resembling a grip around his gun, but he can feel the metal discs dislocating as he does so.

Great. It's going to take him the rest of the day to push them back into their normal place.

“Fuck,” he says again, with emphasis. “Okay, um, everyone here know how to use this particular rifle?”

There's a chorus of 'no's and Simmons wishes he could roll his eyes even more.

“Okay, stupid question. Does anyone know the correct stance for a rifle?”

“Yeah!” They all say.

“Show me!”

Caboose's squad has their knees bent way too much and Smith keeps dropping the rifle. Simmons sighs. This is going to be a long day.

–---

“So, how was training our squads?” Tucker asks with a shit-eating grin as he slams his tray down in front of Simmons at dinner.

“Fuckin' awful,” Simmons says, trying to twirl spaghetti onto his fork with his left hand, but it's hard. He missed his appointment with Dr. Peters because he had to train all three squads, and the buzzing under his skin is getting worse.

“Well, the mission sucked ass, so you're not the only one. Have you seen Caboose?”

Simmons shrugs. “No.”

“Oh, wait, he's on guard duty today, isn't he?”

“He does guard duty?”

“He needs breaks from drills.” Yeah, so does Simmons.

Simmons can't cut his goddamn potato so he has to stab his fork into it to get it to cut cleanly. It gets stuck on the fork and he can't pull it out for another cut, so he just gives up and drinks his water instead.

“Dude, you okay?” Tucker looks up from his own potato and glances at Simmons' wreck of a plate. “Just cut your food up.”

“Can't,” he says.

“Why?”

“My fucking fingers are broken.”

“What?!”

“Fucking robot fingers fucking dislocated themselves.”

“Oh. Shit, man.”

Simmons seethes quietly because this day is not going right at fucking all.

“...want me to cut your food?”

Simmons pushes his tray towards Tucker and leaves.

\----

God, he hates himself.

Simmons' hand pulses with the residual pain of realigning his fingers and pushing them back into place, and he lays his arm gingerly on his chest as he considers the ceiling and tries to sleep.

He decides to just get up after the second nightmare, the second time Grif died on him, and he fucking wonders how the hell he even got this far.

Well, he certainly didn't do it by himself, but that's just because he's a pathetic leech _who just doesn't know how to be a real man_!

Simmons turns on his side like that'll drown out the voice of his father and he stares at the empty bed. It screams at him. _Failure_. _Weak_. _Useless_. _Pointless_.

He doesn't sleep.

\----

“So, where are you going?” Tucker leans against the wall and cocks an eyebrow at him. His helmet is tucked under one arm.

Simmons is actually going to Dr. Peters, but he just shrugs and says, “None of your business.”

“Simmons, something's up.”

“Shut up.” And he walks right past Tucker. He doesn't have time for this – he's too tired, too much of a goddamn _mess_ (a week and four days since Grif nearly died and no news on him whatsoever – Simmons is too chickenshit to ask if there is any).

“You nearly fainted at breakfast today!” Tucker follows him. “You're usually soawake it's annoying!”

“Haven't been sleeping much.”

“Yeah? I've noticed. Ever since Grif went to the hospital.”

 

Simmons freezes.

 

“What, worried about your boyfriend? You do realise he just insults you all the time?”

Tucker's not usually this mean – tensions are running high – a string of unsuccessful supply runs – more people injured – Simmons _knows_ all this, he _knows_ Tucker doesn't mean any of it, he's just tired and stressed and strung out and annoyed – yeah, definitely annoyed – and he knows this because he is, too. He's all that and more.

“He's not my boyfriend,” he says quietly.

“Holy shit, you do like him.” Tucker's voice drops to a shocked whisper and Simmons hears him step closer. “Shit, oh shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - “

“Forget it,” Simmons says, just barely avoiding the lump in his throat.

“I - “ But Simmons walks away. He's late to his appointment.

\----

“Simmons? Are you okay?”

Simmons continues to stare blankly at the floor. He's been sitting here in silence for fifteen minutes, right after he walked away from Tucker.

“Simmons - “

“Grif's been in hospital for a week and five days.”

“And?”

“He hasn't woken up yet.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn't – it was a mission, but I couldn't - he got shot and it was bad, pretty bad. I couldn't – I had to stop the bleeding before we got evac and – and I stopped some of it, but he lost enough blood that he could – could - “ Simmons chokes on the word and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“You don't have to - “

“Die. He could die.” And that does it, that breaks him and he starts crying, bringing up a hand to press it against his human eye. “He could die and it would all be my fault because I couldn't save him, I _couldn't_.”

“Simmons, it's not your fault. You did what you could. You can't - ”

“I don't want him to die, I don't want that, he's – he's an asshole and lazy as fuck but goddamnit, he's - “ _whatever makes you happy here, don't let it go_ “ - he's the best thing that ever – ever happened to me.”

 

Simmons realises what he's just said and he prepares to backtrack, tell Dr. Peters to forget he ever said that – but he breathes in and he can't – can't erase that from the air. He can't take it back no matter how much he thinks he _should_ because he knows it's true. Grif is the best goddamn thing that ever happened to him.

 

“Have you visited him in the hospital?” Her voice is gentle, calming.

“Once or twice, but I'm too – I'm too scared.” Simmons' voice drops to a whisper and he presses the heel of his hand harder to his eye. “What if he doesn't wake up?”

A hand lands on his thigh and squeezes gently.

“Well, Simmons, I think you should go visit him.”

Simmons nods, but he doesn't want to go.

“Can I – Can I stay here for a bit?”

“Sure,” Dr. Peters leans back and balances a box of tissues on Simmons' thigh. “Do you want me to leave?”

Simmons shakes his head.

“Okay, then. I'll stay.”

\----

Simmons has to take a deep breath to steady himself before he steps foot in the hospital. He found a small yellow flower outside somewhere and now he's twisting it nervously between his fingers. You're supposed to bring flowers to a hospital, right?

So Simmons grasps the lone flower in one hand and braves the hospital. He asks a passing medic where Captain Grif is and they point to the end of the hall. He thanks them and starts walking past the beds. The hospital's more like one big room, lined with beds on either side, wounded soldiers in them. Simmons passes a member of Tucker's squad, his leg broken. He sees one of Caboose's, her left side covered in burns.

There's a few private rooms at the end for serious injuries, and the first one Simmons looks into has a woman swathed in bandages. Simmons quickly pardons himself and backs out. He peers into the window on the door of the next room, and his breath catches when he sees Grif.

He steels himself and walks in.

The door swings shut silently behind him. It's quiet in Grif's room except for the whir and beep of the machines. Simmons carefully pulls up the chair in the corner and sits down on the creaking frame.

“So, uh,” he starts. “I've heard that talking to people in a coma helps. I mean, I guess you're in a coma; you haven't woken up yet, and, well, I brought – I brought a flower because that's what you do, right?” He sets the flower down on the bedside table, which is devoid of everything but an unopened bottle of water.

Grif's own skin is pale, too pale, and the parts that are Simmons' look almost white. The heart monitor is beeping out a steady pace, though, and there's a definite rise and fall of Grif's chest.

“It's been pretty quiet without you. I've got to eat lunch with Tucker and Caboose, and you were right. Blue Team problems. They have a lot.”

Simmons tells him about what they've had for meals, about the training, Kimball's meetings, the funny parts of Tucker's stories.

He's there for two hours before he has to leave.

\----

The nurses remove the external pacemaker and the breathing tube two days later. Simmons talks to a medic while they rearrange the machines.

“He's starting to show signs of consciousness. Look, there,” the medic points to the machine giving readouts of his brain. Not like Simmons understands it. “These spikes in the last few days indicate more brain activity. He might wake up soon.”

“So is he getting better? Will he live?”

The medic studies him for a moment. Simmons looks away. He doesn't like the scrutiny.

“We got the bullets out when he came in. There were two of them, almost did permanent damage to his heart. But we got it in time and they only temporarily damaged it.”

“So?”

“So it's repairing itself. It works well enough, and to be honest, it hasn't needed the machine for a few days now, but we didn't want to risk cardiac arrest. But the brain activity means his heart is working and his body, at least, is conscious of itself. So we need to remove the pacemaker and the tubes before he wakes up, because it's pretty horrifying waking up to electric pulses on your chest and a tube down your throat.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“It looks like he's getting better. As long as he stays stable, he'll live.” The medic leaves with that and Simmons collapses into the chair with relief. Grif's getting better.

\----

It happens while Simmons, Tucker, and Caboose are in a meeting with Kimball.

“So, I need you to - “ Kimball's interrupted by rapid knocking on the door. “Come in!”

It's Dr. Peters. She looks right at Kimball. “I need to borrow Simmons for a moment, if you please.”

Kimball looks at Simmons, who shrugs. He doesn't know why he's being called out.

“Can he do it in ten minutes?”

“Kind of need him now.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Vanessa, please, he's needed now.”

Kimball sighs. “Okay. Simmons, find out your orders from Tucker. Now go.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

 

Dr. Peters waits until they're a good way down the hallway before speaking to him.

 

“Grif's awake.”

Simmons stops right there, in the middle of the hallway. “What?”

“Grif's awake.”

“Wait, is something wrong? Why did you mysteriously pull me out?”

“Nothing's wrong, Simmons. He's fine. He – uh - He's been asking for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“I – uh – I gotta - “

“Just go already,” she grins and Simmons rushes past her. 

\----

He sheathes his gun and removes his helmet when he enters the hospital, and when he gets to Grif's room he nearly faints. Instead he goes inside and sits down on the chair. A doctor pokes her head in. “He's fine, he's been stabilised, he's just been asking for you.”

“Thanks!” Simmons calls as she bustles away.

Grif's bed has been raised a bit so he's in more of a sitting position. Simmons rests a hand on the railing of the bed and just – looks for a moment.

“Hey, Grif,” he says.

“Simmons.” Grif cracks an eye open.

“Yeah?”

“Did you take my Moon Pies or did I just dream that?”

Simmons' jaw drops open. “Really? Really?!”

“What?” Grif closes his eyes again.

“You're in a coma for two weeks and you ask about Moon Pies?!”

“Priorities, Simmons, priorities.” He coughs and then groans. “God, that tube really hurt.”

“You felt it?”

“My throat is fucking sore.”

“Well, I didn't take your Moon Pies, so no need to worry.”

“Good,” Grif grunts.

“But I may have ordered them in order of least expired to most expired.”

“Fuckin' – nerd.”

\----

“So what'd you do with yourselves for two weeks?”

It's been a week since Grif woke up, and they've let him out of the hospital, mostly because they need the room, but also partly because he needs to get walking again. He's joined them for dinner now, his crutches leaning on the table and his pills dissolving in his water.

“You were gone for two weeks?” Tucker says, and Grif flicks a piece of noodle at him. Tucker laughs and lets it hit him. “Well, Simmons here got pretty mopey.”

“Shut up, Tucker,” Simmons says, but Grif's already wheezing with laughter.

“Aw, did wittle Simmons miss me?” Grif goes to squeeze his face and Simmons has to bat him away, blushing.

“No, you asshole.”

\----

Simmons has to help Grif get into his own bed, and after he finally gets him settled and goes to pull away, Grif's hand slaps at his arm, trying to grab it.

“Yeah?”

“Doctors said you – you visited me.”

“Where's this going?”

“I – heard you – in the coma. Think I dreamt about Blood Gulch, not really sure.”

“Wow, that's depressing.”

Grif chuckles, getting drowsier by the second. The painkillers do that to him.

“Yeah but you were there, so – wasn't so bad.”

“What?” But Grif's asleep, out like a fucking light.

Simmons retreats to his own bed, and he stares at the bed that's no longer empty.

He sleeps.

\----

 

“Are you okay, Simmons?” Dr. Peters crosses her legs and leans on them. “Simmons?”

_no place in this family for a **fag** like you_

“I - “

_fucking disgusting, you are, fooling around with those boys_

“Yes?”

_oughta straighten you out, boy_

“I - “

_you think people like you are normal?_

_you're a freak of nature_

 

“Simmons?”

“I'm gay.”

“Uh – okay. I kind of guessed that when you said you liked Grif.”

“No, I just – I need – I needed to say it. I've never – never told anyone like that before.”

Dr. Peters bites her lip thoughtfully. “Why?”

Simmons looks up at her, confused. “Why? Because it's – it's _wrong_ and it's – _disgusting_.”

“Who told you that?”

“Told me?”

“That's not you speaking. Who told you that? Your father?”

“...yeah.”

“Forget it.”

“What?” Simmons fiddles nervously with his fingers.

“Forget what he said. There's nothing wrong with being gay. Absolutely nothing.”

“I know. I know, I know, I just – he - “

“I understand.”

“I just needed to tell someone.”

“Okay.”

“And I – I want to tell Grif, I do, but he – I – what if he hates me because of it?”

“Simmons - “

“What if he never wants to speak to me again? What if he's – disgusted by it? What - “

“Simmons.”

Simmons stops his rant, panting, and he feels so fucking helpless like this, exposing himself all over the goddamn place, but he trusts Dr. Peters and he – he needs advice.

“Simmons, I assure you, he won't do any of those things.”

“How? How do you know?”

“Trust me on this. He won't.”

\----

Simmons can do this. He can do this.

He walks into their room to find Grif field stripping a pistol.

 

“Shut up. It's the only thing I can do while sitting.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“No I – Look, I have something to tell you.”

“Shoot.”

 

Simmons closes the door and steps over to his bed, sitting on the edge of it.

 

“Um, before I say anything, I just – I want you to know that – I – I'll understand if you don't want to be around me anymore. Or talk to me. Or anything, really. I'll – I'll get it.”

“Wait, what?” Grif puts the pistol down and sits up in his chair. “What are you talking about?”

Simmons takes in a shaky breath and runs a hand down his face. “Okay,” he murmurs to himself.

“I'm gay.”

“O...kay?”

“That's – That's not all, it's just - “

“I don't care, dude.”

“What?”

“That you're gay.”

“That's...good. But it's not – it's not the worst part.”

“Worst part?”

Simmons swallows thickly and focuses on the floor by Grif's feet.

“I – I – oh god – “ Simmons takes in a deep breath “ - I like you.” It's almost a relief to say it, but Grif still hasn't spoken and Simmons is getting anxious.

“Grif?”

“You like me or you like like me?”

“Grif,” Simmons whines, burying his face in his hands.

“No, it's a serious question.” Simmons hears the creak of the chair and then there's a presence in front of him.

“Like like you,” he whispers.

 

A hand comes up and takes one of his, pulling it gently away from his face. Simmons looks up with his exposed human eye to see Grif, unexpectedly close. Simmons is the taller one but he feels smaller when Grif tilts his head up and forces him to look at him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I – made things weird between us. I fucked it up. I'm sorry.”

“What? No, no you didn't, god, Simmons.”

Simmons lets his other hand drop from his face. “What do you mean?”

Grif looks down and wraps his fingers around Simmons'. He swallows thickly.

“MaybeIkindoflikelikeyoutoo.”

“What was that?”

“Maybe I – kind of – are you really gonna make me say it out loud?”

“Do you mean it?”

“Do I – of course I fucking mean it!” Grif shakes his head but there's a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I never knew you – never thought - “ Simmons stops speaking when Grif leans in, instead focusing on steadying his breathing.

“Shut up, you nerd.” And then Grif kisses Simmons.

 

And, yeah, maybe Tucker's right, Grif does insult him a lot, but Tucker doesn't see the smile Grif gives him right before they go to bed or feel the sweat on his palms as he kisses Simmons for the first time or the way he sighs out Simmons' name just for him or the warm line of his body when he sits too close.

 

So fuck Tucker.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've never seen a therapist and I don't know what they say or how they act, so I just based Dr. Peters on what I would want someone to say to me if I was Simmons.


End file.
